from a multitude of washings.
She didn’t appear to be the typical tourist who occasionally stumbled upon the charm of the small town, strutting the beach in the latest finery, flashing diamonds that would feed a family of four for months.
Part of him assessed her as a private investigator would. The other part of him assessed her as a man. Her hair looked soft as silk and framed her delicate features. The cover-up did little to hide her lush curves. She was pretty, and looking at her made a strange ball of heat fire up in the pit of his stomach. That irritated him. At the moment, everything irritated him.
“Please…there must be something I can do to make this right, Mr. Coffey.”
He frowned. “How do you know my name?”
“One of the nurses told me.” She shifted the boy from one hip to the other. “I feel one hundred percent responsible for your injuries. You must let me do something to make this right.”
Anger welled up inside Jack. “Lady, you can’t make this right. If you’d been watching your kid, this would have never happened.” He took several awkward steps toward the outer door, aggravated as she hurriedly grabbed the door handle and yanked it open for him. He yelped as the door hit his good leg.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She gasped in horror.
Jack shook his head, momentarily afraid to speak, and stepped out into the bright sunshine, the woman and her kid right next to him. “I’ve got a dozen reports to type up, which will be fun since I only have one working hand. I’m in the middle of cases that require me to be mobile. There’s nothing you can do to make this right unless you can lay hands on me and heal me instantly.” Each word shot out of him like a bullet into a bull’s-eye.
“I can type.”
He turned to glare at her and, unwavering, she held his gaze. “Good for you.” He hobbled down the sidewalk away from her.
“I could type up your reports.” Once again she fell into step beside him. She smelled pretty, like a sun-drenched flower, and again he felt a flutter of heat in the pit of his stomach.
“I don’t want you typing up my reports. You’d probably crash my computer.”
“How are you getting home?”
The question made him stop in his tracks. He’d been walking to get away from her, but now he contemplated her words. He’d jogged to the beach from his house, but there was no way he could now jog back. “I’ll call for a cab.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she replied. “I’ve got a car right here. I can take you home. Please.” She placed a hand on his arm, her eyes luminous with need. “Let me at least do that much for you.”
Suddenly Jack was too tired, too much in pain to argue. All he wanted to do was get home and put his aching body to bed. “Okay,” he agreed, then frowned at the boy in her arms. “As long as you keep that monster away from me for the duration of the drive.”
Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink and her arms tightened around the child. “He’s not a monster. He’s really a very good little boy.”
“Yeah, I hear that’s what they used to say about the Unabomber,” Jack retorted dryly.
Her blush deepened, and this time he thought it might be anger that colored her cheeks. She drew an audible breath, then pointed to the parking lot. “My car is over there. I’ll just go get it.”
Jack nodded and leaned wearily against the building, wondering if she could manage to get him home without any major catastrophes. He couldn’t help but feel a horrifying sense of impending doom.
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